


'Til I Hear You Sing

by Nachtigall



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Composer Eames, How do I tag?, M/M, Off-screen Character Death, Singer Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:09:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nachtigall/pseuds/Nachtigall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames had been struggling with his music for years before Arthur. He'd been struggling with his life for years before Arthur.</p><p>And now.<br/>After Arthur.</p><p>He's still struggling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Til I Hear You Sing

**Author's Note:**

> If you see any errors please point them out! No beta was used so all errors are mine.
> 
> italics = memories

Eames stared blankly through the glass of his window. It was raining, the shadowy alley below slowly becoming visible as the rain created rivers of clean glass through the coat of grime coating the glass. Eames hadn't cleaned the window or opened it for quite a while now. The sound of his phone ringing in the next room went unnoticed, until the answering machine announced its mailbox full. Eames hadn't checked those in a while either. He sat at his desk and stared at his dirty window, dressed in a white undershirt marred with ink stains, streaks of gray, in some places almost as black as his fingertips. He’d done a lot of writing. Sheets and sheets of paper, notes begging to jump off the page, arpeggios waiting to be voices, words crying out to be sung. Eames clenched his fist. No one would ever hear them. These songs weren't his to give away.

Eames looked away from the rainy window, down at his notes. His hand trembled as he reached for his fountain pen, finishing another song, the last note, a low A stretching on for measures at a time until it would fade with gentle vibrato from the air. The note looked sad, a suggestion on a page, forever barred from reaching its full potential. Carefully, Eames picked up the manuscript, stacked the many pages carefully and added it to the pile of other finished works. Dom would be proud of him, Eames thought. The man had always been pushing Eames to write more music, saying that he had a gift, begging him to write. Eames had never been able to other than that one song he’d forced out of himself with the inspirational aid from other great composers of the great operas. Mozart and Eames had an understanding. As did he and Andrew Lloyd Weber. But that was a different matter. The song had been a thing of technical perfection, building to a sweeping crescendo and falling to silence as gracefully as a feather fell from a bird’s nest. The audience had loved it when it had been sung. Dom swore by its greatness and saw it as a gateway to a legendary musical career.

To Eames, the song had been nothing special, devoid of soul, feeling and meaning. It had been written with nothing in mind and would therefor always be nothing. Nothing but a pretty thing to listen to. Eames wasn't interested in pretty. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't write anything else. Until he met Arthur that is, Arthur changed everything. Eames sighed and reached for another blank sheet, ledgers only. F major this time, he thought picking up his pen again. He stared for a moment, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and thought of Arthur. He began to write.

\---

“Hello, my name is Arthur, can I get you something to drink?” An inauspicious start to a conversation that would transform both their lives. At the time, Arthur had been nothing but a pretty face.

_“Whatever beer you like the best.” Eames was angry that day and forwent his usual pet names. He’d spent hours hunched over at his desk and had nothing but pretty, meaningless melodies to show for it. He’d given up, if composers wrote what was inside them there was nothing inside of Eames worth sharing._

_“Why is it always beer? Beer is a vulgar, crude drink, nothing sophisticated or interesting about it. I’ll bring you something with some flavor. Though your choice of wardrobe indicates that sophistication might not be your forte.” Eames slowly looked up at the waiter. Dressed impeccably, tie perfectly tied, dark brown hair carefully styled. The picture of order. Eames hissed, the man was like a scale in c major, nothing interesting or new there. But it couldn't hurt to have a bit of fun. Eames sat back in his chair and crossed his arms._

_“And since when do waiters insult their customers darling?” Eames said tilting his head._

_“When they look like they would rather hide from the world than engage with it. It’s a coward’s way to live.” The man sneered._

_“May I know your name if you’re going to insult my lifestyle at least?” Eames asked._

_“Arthur.” He pointed at the name tag shining golden on his shirt. “Read the tag.”_

_“Just trying to be polite love.” Eames said._

_“Don’t call me that, it’s undignified.” Arthur looked down his nose at Eames. “I’ll bring you that drink now.” He said, and walked away._

Conversations with Arthur had been pointless, stretched over days and weeks. Insults about a particular shirt here, jabs at snobbishness and lack of imagination there. There had been semi joking flirting and semi joking rejections, and over the course of time Eames found himself with another friend. They remained that way until one day when Eames had come late to the restaurant where Arthur worked and slipped in after closing time.

_Eames opened the door of the restaurant, ignoring the closed sign._

_“Arthur!” He called. There was no answer and suddenly there was sound. Eames froze. It was mesmerizing. The voice swelled to fill the entire space, settling deep in his chest and resonating there, soothing him from the inside with vibrations against his rib cage, expanding until every inch of his body was filled with it. Eames didn't know how long he stood there, eyes closed with one hand on the door handle. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings, a soft voice was calling him._

_“-ames!” He opened his eyes. Arthur stood in front of him, a vaguely worried expression on his face._

_“What was that. You couldn't hear me. Should I call someo-“ “Was that you?” Eames interrupted. Arthur looked confused._

_“What?”_

_“Singing. Was that you singing.” Eames demanded earnestly. Arthur looked away looking uncharacteristically embarrassed and nodded._

_“Yeah. I haven’t sung in a while and usually there’s no one here for me to bother.” Eames cut him off._

_“You have an incredible voice Arthur.”_

_“Thank you, I haven’t sung for an audience since I was a child but I’m glad I’m still alright.”_

_“Alright?! Arthur you’re better than alright, you’re bloody brilliant, you sing like a lark, your voice makes me feel-“ Eames cut himself off and sighed. “Listen. I’m a composer and I've just written a song. I have a showing scheduled for 3 weeks from now and I don’t have a singer. Will you do it?” Eames was desperate, he hadn't technically written the song yet but he could feel it coiling in his chest, waiting to be released through his fingers. It would be the best he’d ever written. If only he could get this man to sing it._

_“I don’t know Eames. I haven’t performed in so long. And this is New York, you don’t just perform randomly in New York and make it.”_

_“Please Arthur. Your voice is perfect. Perfect for performance and perfect for this song. Please. At least come by the studio and try singing it once before you decide. It’s nothing too fancy. Simple, yet elegant, it suites you.”_

_“As if you could write something elegant Mr. Eames. Alright. I’ll come by tomorrow, it’s my day off.”_

_“Thank you.” Eames sad, sagging slightly with relief._

_Eames rushed back to his cramped apartment and began to write. He couldn’t it turned out write something elegant if he tried, but if he tried to put the essence of that voice onto paper, he didn't have to. That first night and for many after, Eames wrote like a man possessed, scrawling away until the sky began to lighten. He stared down at his finished piece. He’d done it. Finally Eames had written something special, something with life, something with meaning. It was his greatest work._

The next day, Arthur sang it.

Three weeks later. Arthur performed it.

A month after that, Arthur performed again.

A day after that, Eames asked Arthur on a date. Arthur said yes.

For a year, Arthur and Eames rose together, carried as if on a sliding piano scale towards musical greatness.

Then one day it all shattered, like glass across the pavement.

\---

Eames had always believed that the first song he wrote for Arthur was his best work. It turns out that he had been wrong. The haunting, painful melodies he spun now wrenched at his soul and brought tears to his eyes even as they poured from his fingers. A tale of love and loss and life and death distilled into ink on a page. When Dom finally came by, three days after the accident, Eames had already written 5 songs. Ignoring the man’s presence Eames had refused to leave his desk until he had finished the series. Dom had finally relented, realizing that the composer would not be moved and supplied him with pen and paper and coffee until he fell asleep on the couch. That had been yesterday. This morning the man had finally left, and by the time the sun set, Eames had finished. Eames picked up his phone and dialed with dirty fingers.

“Dom here.” Eames said nothing.

“Eames. Eames are you okay?” Taking a deep breath, Eames replied.

“I've finished.” He hung up.

Twenty minutes later, Dom sat on the couch reading through the music, tears slowly slipping down his cheeks. Eames sat opposite him, on a dirty old table, a cup of water curled in his clawed hand.

“Eames.” Dom stopped. “It’s beautiful Eames.” He said seriously, looking into the haunted pale green eyes of one of his oldest friends.

“It’s all I have left.” And it was. Eames had poured everything he had into those songs. Every memory, every feeling, every gesture and song and touch and laugh. All of his love, his pain, his grief, his hope, his disappointment, his fear. It was all there in tiny black dots and lines and words written in shaky cramped script. His last song. Everything he had of Arthur.

“He would be proud.” Dom said solemnly. Eames nodded blankly and took another sip of his water. They sat in silence for a moment. Eames suddenly gasped, words so desperate they sounded torn from his throat.

“Someone needs to sing it.”

“We’ll find someone who can. Someone perfect for it.”

“The world needs to know. Everyone needs to know. Everyone needs to hear him as I did, as I do.” Eames said, words deteriorating as sobs welled up from his chest. “Everyone needs to love him” he said desperately. Dom pulled the sobbing man into a hug.

“Everyone will Eames. Everyone will hear him.”

“But I won’t Dom.” And that was all there was to it really. Without Arthur, Eames was directionless, lost at sea. All Eames had ever had was music, all he had ever understood was melody and tempo and notes and passion. It was all he had, and Arthur had turned it upside down. Eames knew that he’d never understood music until he heard Arthur’s voice, hadn’t understood its full potential, its importance until he’d tried to capture Arthur in a song. He’d failed miserably until now. Arthur had become his muse in music and in life. Without Arthur, Eames was shattered, walking through his life like a ghost. There was nothing left.

Dom left eventually, off to find a singer to perform Eames’ last work. Eames finally stood, legs wobbly with lack of sleep and walked to his CD player and pressed play. He closed his eyes and let the sweet tones of Arthur’s voice wash over him, let the scales and whole notes rock him gently, providing comfort where arms no longer could. Slowly the broken musician slid into a dream where he lay, curled into the warm spot on their double bed as the sound or Arthur’s lilting voice filtered through the walls as he cooked breakfast. It was a Weber kind of morning Eames thought.

**Author's Note:**

> I knowwwwwww I'm sorry! Please don't kill me.
> 
> Sooo this is a time stamp from an alternate universe that i'm toying around with. There's a main story that I'm in the process of writing. Leave a comment or kudos if you'd be interested in reading it!
> 
> Thanks y'all!


End file.
